


Sir

by Weconqueratdawn



Series: A Luxury of Punishments [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Caning, Daddy kink (ish), Dom Hannibal, Empathy, Established Relationship, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Kink Negotiation, Love, M/M, Memory Palace Sex, Morning Sex, POV Hannibal, Sadism, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Roleplay, Sub Will Graham, collared!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 03:50:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10428486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weconqueratdawn/pseuds/Weconqueratdawn
Summary: Will uses his skills to reconstruct Hannibal’s fantasies ;)Set in the Cathexis-verse post-Gifts, but can be read as a standalone - an AU with BDSM instead of cannibalism and murder. Will and Hannibal are in an established D/s relationship, and have just moved in together.“Is Sir feeling restless?” Will asked, not even attempting to hide the sly smile in his voice. “Can I assist with anything?” His hand, curled in front of his chest, twitched once, but other than that he was completely motionless.Hannibal knew he only had himself to blame. The title he had suggested himself, after all. Now Will realised how much Hannibal liked it, he used it often, on occasion dangling it like a particularly amusing carrot. A very bad habit, though affectionate, and one it would be difficult to persuade him out of.“Yes,” Hannibal said, close to his ear. “You could call me that without a smirk on your face.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fic giveaway at Red Dragon Con 3 and, as promised, now posting it here four weeks later! It was lovely meeting you all :)
> 
> Thanks to lordofthelesbians and [wraithsonwings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithsonwings/pseuds/wraithsonwings) for beta <3

It was still early. The secretive light of dawn was only just breaking, creeping into the room to create shadows from the flat blank darkness of a country night. Everything was indistinct and hazy, as if the air had thickened and become viscous. 

The white sheets surrounding them appeared a soft lavender grey, and the frank rosiness of Will’s complexion was muted to milky-paleness. By way of contrast, his hair and collar were made almost black. Hannibal lay still and watched the shadow behind Will’s jaw deepen and shift with the rising sun. As it grew in strength, individual curls of his hair were picked out by its light, raucous and unruly and scented with sleep. Hannibal thought he detected a permanent redolence of leather there too - an association only, but an accurate one. Will chose to wear Hannibal’s collar and in doing so chose to belong to him. Why shouldn’t that choice imprint on him, seep into his skin, to lace his own odour with traces of warm leather? Love transforms the body’s chemistry; its scent could not be far behind. 

The room was brighter now, and outside the birds were louder. Colour began to saturate reality again, returning the flush to Will’s cheeks. His lips, parted with slow even breaths, were a youthful red, openly defiant of the lines around his eyes. With Will on his side, only the upturned corner of his mouth was visible. Its curve suggested a perpetual half-smile, even when its owner intended nothing more than to be disagreeable and off-putting. 

Will was well aware of the effect his looks had on others and had done his best to persuade himself, as well as the rest of the world, that they were misleading. From him no one should expect a lover’s encouragement to approach, only wariness and self-doubt. But his guard had been let down for Hannibal. Half-starved of genuine human contact - whether emotional or physical, platonic or sexual - he had stumbled from the harshly-lit office where they had met, straight into the mesh of Hannibal’s designs. Rumpled, uncooperative and immediately fascinating, he had been a prize worth the effort. 

At first, the effort Hannibal needed to expend had hardly been taxing. A simple steer to keep Will away from the threatened demands of Jack Crawford, followed by a carefully offered friendship. All ending with Will pinned face-first to the kitchen wall as Hannibal frotted roughly against him, luxuriating in his surprised gasps of pleasure.

It was afterwards that Hannibal had experienced his true struggle, understanding raining down too late of what he had bestowed upon Will, and its consequences. Love on its own he might have been able to welcome, but with it had come fragility and fear. A single word from Will could crack him wide open, to expose Hannibal’s heart, beating wildly in the cavity of his ribs. If it was his desire Hannibal would be powerless to prevent him tearing it free. 

The battle within had been short but violent, an internal war which now felt as necessary as it had been futile. It had burned through his resistance, destroyed it utterly, in favour of absolute surrender. Hannibal had ached to possess, and had succeeded, at the meagre cost of his own possession. 

Will was warm in his arms, his sleep growing lighter as dawn turned towards morning. Hannibal shifted a fraction closer, pressing his face behind Will’s ear and breathing him in. It seemed impossible still, if not for the evidence right before him, that it should be so. That one person could embody all that Hannibal offered. Someone he wanted to bruise, pleasure, devour, punish, worship, own, belong to, take care of and make suffer. And, more than anything, to be the cause of his happiness.

In exchange, Will had welcomed everything Hannibal had given, accepting and returning his intensity with ardour. It had been mesmerising to witness his transformation, observing how his confidence and his demands grew. Leading directly to the present moment, where in their shared bed Hannibal watched him slowly wake, bathed in the twin warmths of Hannibal’s passion and the early spring sun.

His collar lay snug against the back of his neck. Hannibal would be able to reach around and push his fingers into the gap between the thick blunt leather and the hollow of Will’s throat. Instead, he hooked them through the ring at the front and pulled, until the collar bent outwards with the pressure.

Will opened his eyes but didn’t turn his head, only slid his gaze sideways to look at Hannibal through his lashes. Though he would be able to see very little of Hannibal, he proved adept at reading his mood.

“Is Sir feeling restless?” he asked, not even attempting to hide the sly smile in his voice. “Can I assist with anything?” His hand, curled in front of his chest, twitched once, but other than that he was completely motionless.

Hannibal knew he only had himself to blame. The title he had suggested himself, after all. Now Will realised how much Hannibal liked it, he used it often, on occasion dangling it like a particularly amusing carrot. A very bad habit, though affectionate, and one it would be difficult to persuade him out of.

“Yes,” Hannibal said, close to his ear. “You could call me that without a smirk on your face.” 

Will rolled over to face him, abandoning his flirtatiousness for an easy good-morning kiss. “Not serious enough, I see,” he said. “You want something different.”

He studied Hannibal’s expression like it was a puzzle. What he found there, Hannibal couldn’t say but it resulted in Will wriggling closer, wrapping Hannibal in his arms. 

“Tell me, and you shall have it,” he said.

Hannibal touched his lips to Will’s forehead and found, strangely, that he didn’t know how to answer.

*

It had been almost by accident that they had discovered a new facet of Will’s submission - something softer and more tender than his usual masochistic preferences. He had been enchanting, more vulnerable than Hannibal had ever seen him. In it he had wanted to serve Hannibal's desires, rather than his own, and had done so very touchingly. Hannibal had itched to lavish upon him both a form of paternal protection and a loving kind of cruel discipline. 

Later, and only after Hannibal's prompting, Will had agreed that, of all the names he could put to the role Hannibal had played, _Sir_ was the best fit. When Will had confessed it reminded him of his father’s friends, the slow and heavy roll of pleasure in his gut should have told Hannibal all he needed. As should have the sharp and sensuous details retained in his memory - Will’s skin pinkened from both the bath water and his embarrassment, his damp hair sticking to Hannibal’s chest, the wet slide of his hips between Hannibal’s thighs. All they had done was bathe and talk but he returned to those precise moments over and over.

Sometimes his imagination got the better of him and presented highly enjoyable, though lurid and unlikely, continuations of the scene. Will had been wearing his chastity device at the time, its pale plastic peeking demurely out from the bubbles. Perhaps he would have turned to sweetly beg Sir to unlock him and, when denied, very properly offered the use of his mouth instead. Or Hannibal would have run his hands over his firm sleek skin, over the planes of his chest and further downwards. He would have fondled the cage, Will’s smooth and swollen balls, pinched his nipples until they were reddened nubs. And, overstimulated but unresisting, Will would have tipped his head back, mouth falling open to say _Oh, please don’t, Sir_ and meant it. 

Overall, it was perplexing and unexpected. It was hardly a new experience to be addressed by such a title. None of his clients had been given permission to use his real name - which very few had even known. He had been whomever they needed, as long as he could indulge his particular brand of sadistic domination and at an appropriate remove. Beyond a distant thrill at the symbolic power of names, he had never been moved by their usage. 

Typically, Will had used _Sir_ jokingly to begin with. His experiments in providing submissive service had not been repeated, so there had been no further opportunities for Hannibal to reprise his role and claim his title fully. Of course, once Will had grasped Hannibal’s interest in hearing him speak it, he had aimed to both please and tease by its use. Though not quite what Hannibal sought, that was not without its charms either. Most memorably had been the time Will, face plastered with an enormous grin, had said, _Please don’t give me the cane, Sir, I don’t enjoy it at all._ After which, it had been impossible for Hannibal not to promise to do exactly that.

*

Will was looking at him, Hannibal realised. Still waiting for an answer to his question. He felt unexpectedly helpless.

Will had his lips pressed together, and his head tipped gently to one side. To be the focus of his keen and insightful mind never failed to quicken Hannibal’s pulse.

“You want me to be your good boy again,” Will said. “Don’t you?”

Possible replies and their repercussions spun endlessly, but not fruitfully, through Hannibal’s mind. No response stood out as being the right approach to take. It was frustrating.

His gaze had fallen to his hands, lying upon the white and wrinkled sheets at his chest. He dragged it back up to meet Will’s, clear-sighted and direct. 

“Yes,” he answered. “I do.”

A crease crumpled Will’s brow. “Then why not just ask?”

“You don’t like roleplay,” Hannibal replied. “It makes you self-conscious. That’s why you smirk when you call me Sir.”

“We’ve managed it before,” Will said. “Make me live it instead. Make it real.”

“I have tried,” Hannibal said. “When I caned you.”

To his surprise, Will laughed. “You won’t get me to be a good boy by indulging my dirty fantasies,” Will said. “But you might by indulging in yours.”

Hannibal blinked at him. 

“Tell me one,” Will said. “Tell me what your good boy does for you.”

*

Hannibal had felt different beforehand, restless with a desire which quivered under his skin. Where usually he was filled with a precise focused power which soothed and calmed, he had ached with wanting instead.

At the appointed time, Will had been ordered into his office and instructed to drop his pants. More than a little time had been spent arranging him into the perfect position - bent over the desk, cheek pressed flat to its polished surface, forearms and palms lying either side of his head. Feet apart and firmly on the floor, the line of his back straight. Hannibal had walked around the desk and then, using the tip of cane to raise his chin, warned Will not to move. Though Will had looked up with an appropriately solemn expression, the spark of delight in his eyes had been hard to miss.

Twenty strokes had been the allotted number - not an insignificant amount to take cold, even with Will’s appetite. Especially with how Hannibal intended to deliver them.

Each would be hard, measured and evenly spaced, with no play of rhythm to distract. None should fall lighter or faster to ease the burden. Will would know exactly what to expect after only a handful. His body would try desperately to catch up, his rushing endorphins not quite enough to turn his pain into pleasure. Will had asked for punishment, and that was precisely what he would receive.

At the first stroke, Hannibal had realised his mistake. The scene had been created at Will’s request, to fulfil a fantasy of naughty misbehaviour. And Hannibal had walked in with a set of contradictory desires, which he hadn’t been fully cognisant of. He had desired that obedient boy, with his sweet and touching desire to please, to hurt and then offer comfort to. He had wanted to make him squirm, flinch, struggle beautifully to accept what Hannibal gave. Maybe even to coax from him a few stray tears.

But that boy wasn’t in the room, and wasn’t likely to be. Will flinched and gasped, yes, but the only control he displayed was in holding his pose. Instead he was loud in his enjoyment, giving little moans and shivers in between strokes, his arousal heady in the air.

Maybe he should have pushed Will harder, beyond his usual endurance. Or considered more carefully his costume. Something looser and lighter would have worked well, to contrast with the sharp lines of Hannibal’s tailoring. Something easily disarranged and discarded. Something to emphasise his comparative youth and remind him of that weekend before Christmas.

But, Hannibal reflected, it wouldn’t be as simple as that. In his need to serve, Will had been driven internally, primarily by negative emotions. To influence him to inhabit that role again would not be easy or without risk. On the whole, the best course of action was to savour Will exactly as he was - chasing an ecstasy of sensation, his skin blooming from the cane - and give him exactly what he wanted. 

*

“My good boy wants to please me. That is his foremost desire.”

“I see,” Will said, snatching up Hannibal’s hand and kissing it. “And I am usually much too headstrong for that.”

Hannibal smiled, a rushing surge of love warming him. “It’s not my wish to have you any other way.”

“No,” Will said. “It’s a fantasy.”

“And he has an innocence,” Hannibal continued. “So it can be sullied, just a little. Again, and again.”

“It looks like my naughty boy act is far from the mark,” Will said. “What about the cage? Would it help if I wore it?”

“That is not an act,” Hannibal reminded him. The chastity cage was a lovely tool for refocusing Will’s attention, it was true. “It might help you. It’s not necessary for me.”

“I suppose,” Will said, rolling on top of Hannibal, “that if a boy was truly good, he wouldn’t need locking up.”

Hannibal laughed, and drew his palms up Will’s sides and over his back. He was warm, tousled, smiling. Before he could lean in for a kiss, Will slid down his chest.

“There’s an argument to made for that,” Hannibal said, letting his head drop back to the pillows. “But perhaps Sir simply enjoys the prospect of seeing his face light up when the key is brought out.”

Will pressed his grin into the meat of Hannibal’s stomach. “Of course,” he said. “You still want to own. And control.”

“Perhaps even more so,” Hannibal replied. “He needs it from me.”

Will nodded sagely. “He looks up to you. The older male, experienced, virile.” He paused for a moment to pull Hannibal’s pyjama pants down. “There are things you can teach him.” 

Hannibal didn’t answer, content instead to watch Will nuzzle at his cock, soft still. It was an oddly tender gesture. The tip of his tongue darted out to lap gently along its length. Through his dishevelled hair, falling over his forehead, Will met his eyes.

“Go on, then,” he said. “I will please you, and you will tell me a fantasy. About this boy.”

*

Will’s mouth was heated, his lips like fine silk. Hannibal lay back and let his eyes close. He didn’t need to have them open to see the stretch and slide as they worked him, or their shine as they dappled him with kisses. Instead he allowed himself to drift along on the sweetness of pleasure, until the words came.

“The caning,” he began, somewhat hoarsely. “All good boys need occasional correction. It’s not their fault, it is simply the way of things. Lessons must be learned and innocence must be lost, otherwise they stay boys forever.”

“But in fantasy they can,” Will murmured. His breath was hot and damp along the crease of Hannibal’s thigh. “Were you caned as a boy?”

“Yes, at school. It was very common there.”

Will’s tongue dragged and probed, down to his testicles. “How did it make you feel?”

“It was more of an inconvenience than anything else. It hurt, yes, but pain has never been something I dreaded.” The swirl of Will’s tongue was persistent, if gentle. With one hand, he stroked Hannibal lightly. “But I must have learned enough to know I’d rather be the one holding the cane.”

“The one with the influence and the will to mould others,” Will said. 

He raised himself higher and angled Hannibal’s cock towards him. His eyelashes were fanned dark against his cheeks as he closed his lips around it. This time Hannibal watched, reaching out to brush his hair back, rub the stubble at his jaw.

“So what happens next?” Will said, when he pulled away. His mouth was smeared with wetness; Hannibal hungered to feel it slick under his thumb. “The boy is bent over your desk. To him you are Sir, worthy of his deference. Maybe he has erred and is sorry. Maybe he has done nothing at all but trusts he is there to learn something important.”

“You are mocking me,” Hannibal smiled.

“No, I’m not. I’m learning,” Will said. “Teach me.”

*

The hardwood floor was cold underfoot. Hannibal waited on the velvety Persian rug, as Will shuffled forward, towards the desk. His fingertips grazed its glossy surface but he didn’t bend over. He simply stood there, with his back to Hannibal. 

It was not like Will to be hesitant, especially when he knew what was asked of him. But he was learning something else. A different kind of vulnerability, one open and unquestioning. It was a good start.

Hannibal moved in close behind, placing his palm in the centre of Will’s back. His skin was still bed-warmed but goosebumps shivered and spread along his arms. Hannibal only needed to press lightly for Will to follow his cue, bending at the waist to position himself exactly as he had done before. 

“Neatness in all things is desirable,” Hannibal said. “Look at how my desk is arranged - my notebooks, diary, pens and pencils. A good boy would consider himself in the same light.”

He ran his hands down Will’s back, and finding one hip higher than the other, adjusted his stance.

“From every glimpse of you, he would learn,” Will said. “Faced with a choice, his first action would be to ask himself what would please you most.”

“And to carry that out.” Hannibal pushed Will’s briefs down, as far as his spread thighs, and held the length of the cane to his bare skin. The firm flesh dimpled and gave way as he applied more pressure. “What would please me now, Will?”

Will took a breath, a deep gulp of air. His voice was less steady when he spoke. “Your boy has been placed with care, with attention to detail. He should remain that way, until you decide otherwise.”

“Very good,” Hannibal said. “And what does your acute perception have to say about the cane in my hands?”

“It is your will, not a punishment,” Will answered. “Your boy will receive exactly what you have already ordained, no matter how much he pleases. And the boy who does not learn that Sir cannot be softened, is a disappointment indeed.”

Hannibal pulled the cane away sharply, and stepped back. The blinds were still down, and the light which filtered through them was dim and dream-like. Will’s face was in shadow, but his breathing was audible, shallow and fast. 

“The cane is what pleases me,” Hannibal said, raising it high. “As is the crack when it makes contact, and the mark it leaves behind.”

He took a moment to compose himself. The first blow would set the tone, so it was necessary to achieve the perfect pitch.

Hannibal leaned over, to speak into Will’s upturned ear. “As does the whimper the boy makes,” he said, before swinging down hard from the shoulder.

Will flinched, and sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. Beside his head, his fingers curled with white knuckles against the desk. He forced them to relax and Hannibal rained down another. This time he gave a pained gasp of surprise. The first few would be the hardest to take, before he grasped Hannibal’s pattern. And this particular pattern would be relentless.

“You want it to hurt,” Will said, through the steady beat of lashes. “You- ah- like that it does but a-lso… Also, it means he endures it for you. Because-”

He stopped to inhale deeply and check his posture, straightening his spine. Hannibal smiled but didn't stay the cane. The sound of it continued to ricochet out, now accompanied only by Will's abrupt and stuttered breaths.

When he spoke again, his words were half-whispered, forced out through clenched teeth. “Anyone can hurt - that's the easy part. But he wants to- To take what you choose to give.”

Will’s knees were starting to shake. There were five more to go, and Hannibal delivered them without remorse. His skin was littered with marks, the stripes already blurring together into a livid morass. It was going to bruise beautifully.

Each impact shuddered along the cane, a mutual connection of the most physical kind. It travelled through his palm, directly into his core, feeding the vital force which filled his veins. An absorption so complete that every detail could be comprehended at once, without any overshadowing another. The sheen of sweat at the base of Will’s spine; the quiver of his thigh muscles as he fought to stay still; the curl of his hair against the desk.

And, after the last strike, what seemed to be a halo of perfect hush.

Will had kept his position wonderfully, cheek still pressed to the desk, forearms parallel to his body. His breath still came in irregular gasps, but more softly. Hannibal lay the cane across the desk and touched his back, once. Will opened his eyes, and took Hannibal’s hand when it was offered to him. A surfeit of adrenaline caused his fingers to tremble.

Hannibal leant against the desk and soothed him with gentle touches. When Will looked up at him, it was through a daze of unshed tears.

He patted his knee. Will blinked once, then slid down to kneel on the floor, and let Hannibal cradle his head on his thigh.

“He accepts you,” Will said, with a quiet exhale. “Completely.”

*

Light and colour returned to Hannibal in a rush. The sun had fully risen, everything was golden.

It was Will’s fingers, digging tight into his thighs, and the rapid huffing warmth of breath against his knee which drew Hannibal’s attention.

Will stared up at him, eyes wide and longing. His mouth was wet still, lips pinker than before. Hannibal touched them, feeling the stickiness of his own release there. Will leaned into his hand, searching for comfort, for reassurance. At some point they had thrown off the sheets; they lay crumpled beneath Will’s knees.

“My good boy,” Hannibal said. “Come up here.”

Will crawled up, over his chest, dragging the bedclothes with him. Hannibal tucked him under his chin, and wrapped them both in the sheets.

“Did I borrow your imagination?” 

“Yeah,” Will said. “A gift. From me to you.”

Hannibal gathered him closer, one hand sliding down Will’s body to seek out nothing but smooth, unblemished skin and figmental hurts. Will shivered.

“You were wonderful,” Hannibal said. “My perfect boy. Exquisite in your acceptance and understanding.”

He felt Will’s smile against his neck. In his embrace, Will had released some of his imagined tensions. The muscles of his back were looser, his posture softer.

“What would you like in return?” Hannibal asked. 

Will withdrew a little, propped himself up on his elbows, and gave a little shake of his head.

“Sir is very kind,” he said, with only the ghost of a smile. “But I’m good for now.”

He leant in to drop a kiss on Hannibal’s lips. The rasp of his scruff against Hannibal’s lighter stubble was almost unbearably intimate.

“But maybe later you can offer a live demonstration?” Will asked. “I don’t think I’d be smirking then.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Here's the post of this fic on my tumblr](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com/post/158785223872/sir-weconqueratdawn-hannibal-tv-archive-of)
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com/)


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